


Zero Tolerance For Walkers

by sasha_b



Series: Live By The Sword [45]
Category: King Arthur (2004), Original Work
Genre: Language, M/M, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-17
Updated: 2018-02-17
Packaged: 2019-03-20 14:50:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13719999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sasha_b/pseuds/sasha_b
Summary: Arthur really hates zombies.





	Zero Tolerance For Walkers

**Author's Note:**

> written for fun and to make myself laugh. Only a bitty bit of angst this time. ;) This is set during Arthur's early years in the Police force before the split. Title courtesy of AMC's _The Walking Dead_.

 

Arthur held his mail in his mouth, the keys in his hand the only noise on the street. It was full dark and the moon was new and there was no sound from the neighbors, no car noise, no shouting or slamming doors or kids begging to stay out just a bit later. He narrowed his eyes; that was a bit odd. He shuffled the two coffees and bag he held under his chin, fumbling the keys to the door.

A night bird screeched and the hair on the back of his neck stood up; he laughed self consciously and turned back to his task at hand – why did he always have to come home to an empty house when his hands were jammed full of crap? – and the trees behind him whispered and rustled and he shook his head and looked back at the street.

Dead silence. Los Angeles, especially near downtown, was _never_ silent. Yeah, it was a holiday, or near to, but still…

He managed to get the keys in the lock and twisted the handle with his left hand, his loose workout pants too long, the jacket he was wearing old and tatty and turned up at the collar, and just as he slid inside, one foot in the door, ready to get away from the creepily quiet night -

“nnnnnnngggghhhhhhhhhhhhaaaaaarggggggghhhh!”

“Yahhhhhh!”

The coffees and bag went flying, mocha and latte spattering the wall with a dark, ugly splash, his sandaled foot tripping on the doorjamb, his hands reaching out to catch himself as he tried to wildly spin to avoid whatever it was that was flailing cold hands on him. He shouted again, punching at the thing as he fell over his pants, landing hard on his ass in the dim hallway. He canted his head slowly to the right when whatever it was stopped grabbing for him, the coffee he’d spilled _drip drip drip_ running slowly down the wall, viscous and too blood like for his taste.

Wait. _That_ laugh.

“What. The. FUCK, Lance!!”

He roared the accusation as Lancelot, dressed head to foot in worn out torn clothing, face and hair painted expertly in a shade of green Arthur thought he’d never seen before, leaned forward, his hands on his knees as he laughed and laughed, tears running down his face and smearing the makeup he wore.

Arthur sucked in a few breaths, counted to ten, then twenty, then thirty as Lance kept laughing and wiping at his face. He wore white out contacts and Arthur shuddered once as he watched him, the humiliation he’d just suffered gradually fading to mild amusement – although the other man had better watch his fucking back.

“What in the hell was that about?” Arthur finally managed to ask as he sat up, coffee soaking into his pants, getting his hands and butt wet. He rose to his knees and gathered up the mail before it got ruined. Lance straightened at last, still smiling. His white perfect teeth looked rather odd against the horror makeup he had on, and he helped Arthur pick up the dropped bag and coffee cups.

He switched on the hall light and made a face at the spilled mess on the wall and the floor. “Sorry,” he laughed again, “I’ll help you with this.”

Shutting the door with his foot, he headed into the kitchen, hunching his back, shuffling and dragging his left foot behind him as he went, Arthur cringing and rolling his eyes at the _brrrrrrraaaaaaainnnnnnnnnns_ Lance slurred as he walked.

“Where did you get all that stuff?” Arthur cocked an eyebrow when he was able to get a good look at Lance in the kitchen light. It was terrifying, really, a good professional job. He turned on the tap after setting the mail down and washed his hands one at a time, hooking a thumb into his pants and sliding the dirty things off, stepping out of them and kicking them into the corner. Finished with the sink he tossed the coffee cups, making a face, and found a sponge and cleaner.

Lance was smiling again, a broad, weird bright smile, the contacts making his eyes look – Arthur shook his head.

“Yuck.” He touched the makeup on Lance’s face, feeling the dryness of it, impressed by the amount of work that had gone into it. Lance looked as though he were bleeding to death from a deep gash on his forehead; the prosthetic piece was well done. The blood that ran down his face was the right color, in the right place, and glistened wetly, fresh, bright.

Arthur swallowed and bit his lip, if only briefly.

“Gwen has this friend that works for Greg Nicotero's workshop,” Lance was saying, leaning against the counter, crossing his arms over his too large torn up suit. “They needed someone to practice on, so…and Halloween’s coming up. I thought it was brilliant. Don’t the eyes just make it?”

He leaned his head to the side and made a sound that was half growl, half whine. Arthur stared at him for a moment, and then marched into the hall. He swiped the coffee stains with the sponge he carried and scrubbed at them vigorously. Lance followed him, walking normally this time, turning on a few other lights as he passed them.

“Are you mad? You’re mad,” he said, smiling, hopping to sit on a small table that sat in the hall, normally a place for the mail. “Oh, Arthur, come on. It’s just for fun. And my god, you should have seen the look on your face!”

“Not funny, Lance,” Arthur gritted out. “And weren’t you going to help me with this?” He kept cleaning, wiping with vehemence, his knuckles white where he gripped the sponge. The coffee was coming out, gradually, but he had a feeling he might have to repaint. Fuck’s sake.

He could see the blood that decorated Lance’s forehead, could see it drip slowly down the other man’s face, pooling on his cheek, slipping wetly to dot the front of the suit.  He cursed and threw the sponge back toward the kitchen. “I’ll never get this out; I’ll have to paint over it.” He slapped his hands against the wall and didn’t look at Lance, who got down off the table and hovered at his left side.

“Arthur, it’s just a little coffee,” Lance said, his voice soft and slightly hurt, confusion evident. “It’s Halloween. It’s for fun. I’m sorry, okay? I’ll go buy you some paint.” He snorted a sigh out of his nose, and turned to unlock the front door, shuffling through his pockets to find his keys.

Arthur grabbed his arm, the thickness of the large suit making it hard to get good purchase, not wanting to have to follow Lance outside in just his jacket and boxers. Besides, if Arthur was any kind of smart, he wouldn’t let this drag out. He knew better – he took his turn to sigh and forced Lance to face him.

Ugh, those eyes.

He raised a hand and delicately wiped at the blood on Lance’s forehead before taking his jacket off and wiping at it some more. “I don’t like to see you bleed.”

Lance smiled, the corner of his mouth rising, a tiny thing as he let Arthur swab at the red stuff on his face with the jacket. “It’s not real, Arthur. It’s just a costume.” He stood still obediently, waiting for Arthur to finish. “See? It comes off.” He put his ghoulish green hands on Arthur’s shoulders and leaned forward, attempting to kiss him. Arthur jerked back and shrieked a short laugh, a nervous tick making the skin at the corners of his eyes jump.

“Fuck, no. Wash up first.”

Lance popped his white eyebrows up and down and narrowed his eyes, the lack of color creepy in the extreme. He tightened the grip he had on Arthur’s shoulders and breathed hot air into the other man’s ear. “Don’t you think it’s kind of exciting?” He groaned, deep and creaky, and licked at Arthur’s neck. “You could be my victim.”

“I already am. And GET THAT CRAP OFF.”

Arthur twisted and scuttled out from under Lance’s arms, even as the other man did his best Vincent Price laugh. “Okay, okay. Jesus, you’re a baby.” He shambled toward the stairs, thudding up them one at a time. “Showwwwwweeeeeeeeeeerrrrr.”

Arthur watched him go, and then leaned heavily against the stained wall behind him, sliding down it to sit in the spilled ice cold coffee. He closed his eyes and rested his head on his bent knees, his bare legs and short sleeve shirt not doing much to make him warm.

_I don’t like to see you bleed._

He let out a shaky laugh and stood back up, grimacing at the wetness on his ass. Sighing, he trudged up the stairs to change and to find something that would really get the coffee off his walls and floor.

He slid out of his boxers and shirt and pulled on sweats and a tank, afraid to go in the bathroom – he didn’t want to see Lance still dressed in that stuff. Didn’t want to see the wound on his forehead, or the blood dripping down his angular face, or the suit that was too big and reminded him of funeral garb.

He pushed the door open and was rewarded with a deep steamy breath; the other man had gotten out of the shower and was standing naked at the mirror, turning his head back and forth as he made faces, growling and moaning and Arthur rolled his eyes at the monster noises.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “Not sure where my head is. It was great makeup.” He crossed his arms and smiled hesitantly. “You can kiss me now.” He laughed, only a bit embarrassed as Lance turned toward him.

“I’ll eat you instead!”

Arthur shouted in surprise and crashed back against the door, the knob punching through the wall as Lance leapt for him, the other man snaking his damp arms around Arthur’s throat, shoving his body against Arthur’s where it was smashed against the broken door. He still wore the _fucking_ contacts.

The fog from the shower rolled through the bathroom and was too wet on the walls and wood, and Arthur slid down toward the floor, dragging Lance with him. Snarling, Lance bit at Arthur’s jugular and snorfled and said something that sounded like _wannnnnnntttt_ but Arthur was too busy trying to shove him off to figure it out. He tore at Lance’s hair and tried to shove a hand between them, but the damn dampness of Lance’s slender body only made him slippery. Arthur shouted again and Lance pulled back, white eyes narrowed and face smooshed into a pout only Lance could produce.

“For FUCK’S sake, Arthur! You are such a buzzkill!”

Lance disengaged himself from Arthur’s flailing and backed up, fingers reaching into his eyes, jerking the contacts out, throwing them in the garbage. He snorted and slapped his hands on his hips, breath coming fast enough to make his muscles quiver. Arthur stood back up and winced at the sound the door made, sticking his head around it and groaning at the sight of the hole in the wall. “Coffee stains are one thing, but this? God damn it, Lance!”

“God damn it, nothing! I was trying to have a little fun! Remember fun?? That thing we used to have a thousand years ago? Honestly, you shit head. I was only trying to make you laugh.  Jesus.” Lance’s words trailed off and he huffed a sigh, his wet hair blowing off his forehead. He raked a hand through it and it stayed back, his eyes huge and _thank God_ the right color.

Arthur strode away from the half hanging door and shoved Lance into the sink, the other man’s naked ass sliding over the counter as he sat. Arthur’s hands pinned him to where he was; a heated breath from Arthur and he closed his eyes before he spoke.

“I told you, I don’t like to see you bleed, regardless of real or fake. OR to be surprised. However,” he added as Lance tried to interrupt. “However. I do like to see you like this.” His lips curled briefly despite his anger and the fact his heart was still trip hammering in his chest. “So next time, just be naked _sans_ gross zombie contacts and that might work out better for the both of us.  Okay?” He sounded a little more hyper than he cared to, but there it was.

Lance raised his eyes to the ceiling, shaking his head as his hair dislodged and slipped over his forehead. “You can’t stop the shambler train, Arthur. They're coming for you.  They're coming for you, Arthur!” he hissed in a weird hollow voice, his hands crooked and bent, and stuck a bony finger in Arthur’s chest, leaned forward, and bit Arthur’s lower lip. Hard.

“Oh, fuck that,” Arthur threw his hands up, slid his arms under Lance’s legs, and slung him over his shoulder, naked butt in the air, and made his way toward the bed.

He noticed the ex-zombie he carried didn’t put up much of a fight.


End file.
